A Husband in My Heart, Loneliness in My Home

“Do you even have a husband, Emily? I saw Mark leaving your house late last night, and this morning, he was on the subway with some blonde woman!”

Veronica, my neighbor, stood in my doorway, her grocery bag swinging like a metronome of judgment. Her voice was sharp, slicing right through the morning fog and the fragile peace I tried to wrap myself in after another sleepless night. I forced a smile, folding the newspaper I’d been pretending to read. “Why don’t you come in, Veronica? I’ll put on some coffee.”

Inside, the kitchen was spotless—because what else was I supposed to do with my time but clean? As the coffee machine gurgled, Veronica kept her gaze fixed on me, her blue eyes almost too bright. “You know, people talk, Emily. They wonder where Mark is all the time. Is everything… okay?”

I handed her a mug, my fingers trembling just a little. “He’s busy. Work’s been crazy. You know how it is.”

She sipped, then leaned in as if imparting a secret. “I know what I saw. He looked happy, Emily.”

She didn’t have to say it. I felt it, every day—a hollow ache where my marriage used to be. Mark and I had been together for fifteen years, high school sweethearts from a small town in Ohio. Now we lived in an affluent suburb outside Boston, with manicured lawns and neighbors who knew too much and cared too little.

When Veronica finally left, I let myself sink onto the kitchen floor, knees pressed to my chest. I replayed last night’s argument in my mind:

“You’re never here anymore, Mark. The kids barely see you. I barely see you!”

He’d looked at me from the doorway, his tie half-loosened, face unreadable. “Emily, I’m working. I’m trying to keep this house, this life, together. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“You’re not here,” I whispered. “Not really.”

He slammed the door. I heard his car pull out of the driveway, the sound echoing through the empty rooms.

I checked my phone—no messages. I scrolled through Instagram, where everyone else’s lives seemed glossy and full. Moms at soccer games, couples at wine tastings, families at Disney World. I posted a photo of the dog sprawled on the couch, captioned it, “Lazy morning,” and waited for the dopamine rush of likes. It never came.

At noon, my daughter Claire thudded down the stairs, earbuds in, eyes already rolling. “What’s for lunch?”

“PB&J?” I offered.

She grunted, grabbed a granola bar, and disappeared back upstairs. My son, Lucas, was holed up in his room with his Xbox, the only words I heard from him were curses flung at strangers in online games.

By three o’clock, I was pacing the living room, straightening pillows that didn’t need straightening. The silence pressed in. I thought about calling my sister in Cincinnati, but I knew what she’d say—“Just talk to him, Em. You can’t let this fester.”

But what if talking didn’t help? What if he’d already made up his mind?

At five, Mark’s car pulled into the driveway. I watched from the window as he sat there, engine running, staring at his phone. Five minutes. Ten. Then the engine cut, and he trudged up the path, his face set in that blank way I’d come to dread.

He barely looked at me as he came in, tossing his keys onto the counter. “Dinner?” he asked, not meeting my eyes.

“Takeout?” I tried to sound light, but my voice cracked.

He shrugged. “Fine.”

We ate in silence, the kids picking at their fries. I caught Mark looking at his phone under the table, his thumb moving in quick, practiced motions. Texting. I didn’t ask who.

After dinner, I found him on the back porch, staring out at the dark yard. “Mark,” I said, voice trembling, “are you seeing someone?”

He didn’t answer, just kept looking out into the night. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost broken. “I don’t know how we got here, Em. I really don’t.”

Tears stung my eyes. “Was it me? Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s just… I feel lost. I don’t even know myself anymore.”

The next morning, Veronica was at my door again, this time with a casserole. “I made too much,” she lied. In her eyes, I saw something softer—pity, maybe, or understanding. “You know, Emily, you’re not alone. We all have cracks in our marriages. Some just hide them better.”

I nodded, holding back tears. Maybe that was true. Maybe we were all just pretending, living behind closed doors, afraid to admit how lonely we really were.

That night, as I lay in bed with Mark’s back turned to me, I stared at the ceiling and wondered:

How did we go from being everything to each other to being strangers in the same house? And is it possible to find our way back—or is loving someone sometimes just another way to end up alone?